


Titanic (Ft. Hetalia)

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Titanic (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, F/M, Human AU, Nyotalia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>French socialite Marianne Bonnefoy is onboard the famed ship Titanic with her fiance Arthur Kirkland when a near accident introduces her to the street rat Alfred Jones. Bored to tears by the tedium of the upper class, Marianne is intrigued by this spunky boy. Arthur don't like it and begins to fear he may be losing his fiancee, something he refuses to let happen. As drama builds in the dimly lit halls of the grand ship, disaster fast approaches, unbeknownst to all those onboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hello there! You must be the Reader. Good, good, you’re here on time. Just in time actually, see there? See that lady, just getting out of that fashionable new car? That’s the one we’re going to be following. Yes, her name is Marianne. Come now, we don’t want to lose her!

In Marianne’s opinion, this whole exercise was pointless. That being the whole thing, from the very beginning of it—coming to England in the first place and now this ridiculous trip to America. But perhaps she was just bitter about having been yanked from her precious Paris—at least that’s what her fiancé Arthur said. But then, Arthur and Marianne disagreed on most things and their engagement was just another occurrence in a series of dreary and horrid occurrences that Marianne would have liked to avoid altogether. _She_ wanted to go to the Sorbonne.  She wanted to study art and become a painter or something of the sort and live on the Left Bank and not have to be married to the most boring, stiff, reputation-obsessed cliché of a Brit that had ever existed. But then, the world did not seem to be on the side of Marianne Bonnefoy.

                So here she stood, on a bustling, crowded dock in Belfast, having just dismounted the shining white car her mother was having hauled onto the ship with the rest of their things. Hanging from her gloved hand was a bag with some of her things in it; by her feet were three trunks containing her clothes. At least the dock was interesting, if the noise pressed a bit against her strained nerves. In the months before they’d left France and Marianne had become bogged down and full of ennui by the endless tedium of London, she would have found the dock infinitely interesting: all around there were people to watch, scenes playing out, little snippets of the lives of others. It was the kind of thing she drank in, looking everywhere for something to paint, something to write, some inspiration amongst the everyday goings-on.

                But not today. Today she simply looked listlessly around, turning an unimpressed eye on the massive ship created to bear them to America. What their plan was there, she wasn’t entirely sure. She’d asked her mother, but in her impatience had begun complaining before Madame Bonnefoy had even had the chance to explain, so she still didn’t know.

                A small ragamuffin bumped into her, sprinting off through the crowd after some errand or another and Marianne stepped aside long after he’d vanished amongst the press of bodies.

                No, no, stay here. His story is for another time. The Bonnefoys are moving; we must follow!

                Her mother caught her elbow now, urging her towards the gangplank and Marianne moved slowly, her eyes lingering on the dock, but she did follow her mother’s direction, leaving her many trunks to the care of the seamen scuttling around the colossal ship.

                She was dressed in a splendid white dress that hugged her waist but was certainly loose enough above and below to mark her a lady. A broad hat topped her honey- blonde tresses, shielding her pale face from the sunlight. There was no denying that Marianne was quite the beauty, if she abused it a bit here and there. Much less so, though, since her engagement. Arthur did not stand for her constant flirtation with anything that crossed her path. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t do it anymore, it just meant she was more subtle and only did it when Arthur wasn’t around.

                As she mounted the gangplank, she looked around at the glittering sea lapping at the edges of the wharf and wondered when she’d be back in Europe. Apparently she’d gotten too involved in the view though, because someone bumped into her from behind and she heard her mother’s irritated falsetto.

                “Really, Marianne! Pay more attention!” With an inward sigh, Marianne tore her eyes from the scintillating sea and entered the ship, pausing just inside to wait for her mother, who knew which rooms they were staying in.

***

                Taking a brief leave of absence from our elegant and unhappy Frenchwoman, we must now head down to a working man’s bar near the edge of the wharf. Here, it is essential to draw our attention to what seems to be a perfectly average poker game, if not a bit high in stakes.

                There are four men involved in the game: two Irishmen on one side and an Italian and an American on the other. What they are doing in Ireland, exactly, isn’t clear, but here they are, so let’s pay attention.

                The first Irishman lays down his cards. A small straight. The Italian, who has bet all his money, begins to sweat.

                The second Irishman lays down his cards. Flush. Reach out a bit now, Reader. Don’t worry, they can’t see you. Feel the tension. Isn’t it very thick?

                The Italian, who goes by the name Feliciano, casts a panicked look at his companion. He throws his cards down.

                “I got nothing, Alfredo!” he wails. “Alfredo” is his personal nickname for his American companion, who goes by the birth name Alfred. “You crazy, you bet all our money and I got nothing! I hope you got something good!” Alfred lets out a long breath and lowers his head.

                Reader I would advise you to take that tension out of your pocket and put it back. It won’t do you any good carrying it around with you like that.

                “I’m sorry Feliciano,” he says. Immediately the two Irishmen’s eyes shine with the light of victory and Feliciano begins to bluster in Italian. “I’m sorry,” Alfred says loud enough to counter Feliciano’s babbling. He puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But you’re not gonna see your mom again for a long time, okay?” He lays down his cards. “’Cause we’re going to America! Full house baby!”

                “I can’t believe you bet our tickets!” one of the Irishmen roars, right before slugging his companion in the face.

                Alfred and Feliciano scoop the money into their pockets and grab the tickets, slinging their bags over their shoulders as they sprint out of the restaurant. They can hear the blowing of _Titanic_ ’s great horn and know it is not long before the ship will take off. 

                Step lively, Reader, we must keep up with them! They’re running through the crowds now, shoving others aside as carefully as possible before they each take a running leap from the dock onto the receding gangplank and jog through the ship’s entrance just as things are closing up. The porter gives them a displeased and perhaps suspicious glance, but their tickets check out, so he directs them to the third class passenger rooms.

                They hustle down the corridors (Mind that Welsh family, Reader!), checking the numbers until they reach the correct room, inhabited by a Scotsman and another man of unknown origin. Perhaps Indian, Alfred thought, and then was excited, because he had never met an Indian man before.

                He grinned over at Feliciano as he threw his things down on the lower bunk, ceding the top one to the possibly Indian man, whose name was Aadi.

                “Feliciano! We should go up to the deck and watch the ship take off!” Alfred said enthusiastically. Feliciano nodded.

                “Alright, let us go!” The two young men rushed off again, once more wending their way through a crush of people to get up to the deck and find a relatively open spot on the railing, which was crowded with people. Alfred pressed right up against it, hooking his feet beneath the bottom railing and waving zealously to the people flocking to the wharf’s edge.

                “Bye!” Alfred called, continuing to wave wildly. “We’ll miss you! Bye!” Feliciano nudged him.

                “Alfredo, there is no one out there who knows us,” he pointed out. Alfred shrugged.

                “So? Just go ahead and wave, it’s all in the spirit of things!” Feliciano seemed to see wisdom in this, because he smiled and joined Alfred in waving and crying goodbyes to complete strangers.

                And there they remained, laughing and waving until the ship was tugged out of dock and started off on its long journey to the United States.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter this time yay!
> 
> TW: Attempted suicide
> 
> Annalise=Fem!Austria  
> Emma Peeters= Belgium  
> Lars= Netherlands

“It doesn’t even feel like we’re on a ship,” Marianne said, flinging herself gracefully down in one of the hand-carved mahogany armchairs that were just one accoutrement of dozens in the first class suits the Bonnefoys and Kirklands were staying in.

                “Well that’s the idea, petit chou,” Mme. Bonnefoy said, directing a few cabin boys as they hung one of her favorite Monet paintings on the wall. Personally Marianne had the feeling this trip was going to be dreadfully dull.

                “We might as well have stayed in London,” she grumbled to herself, picking up a book to leaf through it, not particularly interested in reading it again. That was when her fiancé entered through one of the side doors.

                “Not still sulking, are you, Marianne?” he asked, his accent grating on her ears almost as much as hers did his.

                “I just don’t see the point of this,” she said, tossing the book lightly back onto the end table. “If we’re on a ship, we might as well feel like we’re on a ship!” That was almost a lie—Marianne was as fond of fine things as her mother, but for the sake of a romantic, rosy atmosphere, she was willing to put them aside. Or just to give her something to complain about, because she needed some way to express how inexplicably unhappy she was.

                Arthur gave his courtesy chuckle, the one he used when he wanted to pretend Marianne was joking about or being funny, because he was too put out with her to bother taking her complaints seriously.

                “Well perhaps we should go walk on the deck,” he suggested, offering Marianne his hand. “I’m sure a view of the sea will cure you of feeling like you’re still on dry land.”

                Marianne surveyed the hand and then Arthur’s face (much as she disliked him, she had to admit he had striking eyes) before taking his hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet and lead her off.

                The deck was perfectly lovely and it was nice and sunny out (Marianne made sure to grab one of her many sun hats on the way out). Arthur gave her his arm and led her around at a slow pace so they had plenty of time to people watch as well as gaze out across the endless water surrounding them. Marianne found it hard to believe all this was really on their little planet. How curious that it could seem so small and so large at the same time!

                It was almost pleasant, walking there with Arthur, until he felt the need to start talking again. There was no logical reason why that irritated Marianne as much as it did, but it gave her an instantaneous upset. She tried to reign it in because she knew it was unfair, but he really was spoiling the quiet atmosphere.

                “Must we talk?” she asked placidly, casting her great blue eyes up at him. “Couldn’t we just walk and admire the ship?”  Arthur gave her a displeased look.

                “I never will understand you, Marianne,” he said stiffly. “You want one thing and as soon as you get it, you want the opposite. Do you ever actually settle on something?”

                “I’m engaged to you, am I not? Is that not settling?” Marianne skirted the real question.

                “Yes and you don’t seem particularly pleased about it either,” Arthur fired back, his eye flashing. “And don’t think I hadn’t noticed you and Antonio back in the summer home!” Marianne almost snorted and waved a dismissive hand.

                “That was nothing, Arthur dear, really. Antonio and I were just playing around,” she said, intending to close the matter. Arthur’s jaw tightened.

                “When you are engaged, you do not get to ‘play around’ with other men!” he said tightly. He sounded so tense Marianne wondered idly if his jaw would shatter should she give him one more thing to be irked about.

                “It was harmless, Arthur,” she said with a small sigh, looking away. Infuriated by her flippant attitude and possible disloyalty, Arthur gave her arm a jerk, almost making her stumble, so that she turned her attention back to him with wide eyes.

                “I am your fiancé, Marianne, and I have warned you about your flirtations with other men,” he scolded her harshly in a low voice. “You may have gotten away with this back in that heathen country France, but you will not in England and you will not in Protestant America!”

                “Perhaps if you didn’t act like being with me was such a trial, I would not look elsewhere for friendship!” Marianne hissed in return, her tone heating right up.

                “Perhaps if you were not such a trial!” Arthur let go her arm and they stood facing each other on the deck, glares shooting back and forth like arrows. For a long moment they stood in silence (Again, Reader, you are free to reach out and feel the tension). Then Marianne turned abruptly away, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

                “I feel sick. I’m going back to my room. I will see you at dinner, or perhaps before.” She marched off, taking shelter under the prized excuse of every female—I feel sick. A man could never deny it. Back in her room, she shut herself away from her mother with scarcely a word and spent the rest of the afternoon in silent contemplation.

***

                Have you ever felt, Reader, that you are standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of your lungs and no one can hear you?

                Or that you are standing on the on a precipice, teetering at the very edge, crying out to your loved ones for help, but though all of them are looking at you, not one seems to recognize you are in danger?

                This is how Marianne Bonnefoy felt. She could not imagine a worse fate than having to spend the rest of her life with Arthur Kirkland as her husband, but no matter what she wanted, her mother’s insistence was sure. Their family fortune was squandered, it was only Marianne’s marriage to Arthur that was going to save them from utter ruin, and to Madame Bonnefoy, that was far more important than Marianne’s petty whines about love and happiness.

                It was this that Madame Bonnefoy was yammering into Marianne’s ear as she helped lace her daughter into a corset for dinner.

                “But Mère, what if I do not want to marry Arthur?” Marianne objected bleakly at last, pushing the conversation to the edge of acceptable boundaries.

                “Marianne! I can’t believe you would be so selfish!” Madame Bonnefoy jerked on Marianne’s corset laces, yanking them perhaps a bit tighter than necessary. “You’re engaged to Arthur and that’s final! I do not want to hear anymore complaining; do you want to end up like those commoners in third class?” Marianne knew what the correct answer was; she didn’t spend the time to wonder what the right one was.

                “Non, Mère,” she sighed quietly, lowering her head.

                “Bon. Then put on your red dress, it looks lovely on you.” Madame Bonnefoy touched her daughter’s cheek briefly and tried to give her an encouraging smile. “I must go out now; I promised Madame Edelstein that we would dine with them and she wanted to meet early for pre-dinner tea.”

                This was something of a joke, really. The Bonnefoys and the Edelsteins had begun as business rivals, but it hadn’t taken long for the two families to develop a genuine dislike of each other. It was one thing that Marianne and her mother got along on; they could always have a good laugh together gossiping about the Edelsteins. A little smile flickered across Marianne’s plump lips, graced with her red, top of the line lipstick.

                “Ah, oui. Best not keep her waiting.” She patted her mother’s hand and turned to get her dress. “I suppose Annalise will be there?” she asked after a moment.

                “Oh yes,” M. Bonnefoy said, amusement in her voice. “I could not have all the fun myself, cherie!” She opened the door. “I’ll see you in the dining hall,” she trilled as she exited.

                Thinking of the ways to best embarrass Annalise, Marianne tugged her dress on, pulled her nice black shoes on over her matching stockings and then dealt with her jewelry. When she was all done up, she flounced up to the dining hall, where her mother and the Edelsteins had wrapped up their pre-dinner tea and were seated at a clean dining table. Several other people had joined them, including the wealthy heiress Emma Peeters, though her brother Lars seemed absent.

                Marianne found a seat (unfortunately) next to the Edelstein’s daughter Annalise. Her adopted sister Lili was apparently deigned too young to come to a fine dinner, for she was absent as well.

                “Annalise,” Marianne said coolly as she sat, spreading her napkin over her lap.

                “Marianne,” Annalise replied in a stilted tone, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Dressed to provoke as always, I see.”

                “Perhaps if you had something to show off, you might be inclined to do the same,” Marianne returned. Annalise made a displeased sound, but there was no further discussion between the two girls. Annalise was the same age as Marianne—17, but they had absolutely nothing in common (Aside from both being nobles, of course).

                Now what Marianne had just said was a bit of a lie as well, Reader—she thought Annalise was perfectly gorgeous, but the girl made no attempt to show that. Too involved in her music and too stuffy to try anything new or risky. When they’d first met, Marianne had flirted with her half in jest, to see her reaction, and half in truth, because Annalise was beautiful and talented, but the Austrian had been appalled and that had begun the on-going rivalry between them.

                Fortunately Marianne was distracted by a bit of small talk from Herr Zwingli, one of the Edelstein’s business partners. They made their wealth through banking and Marianne had a vague memory of meeting their only son Vash when she was younger. She also recalled teasing Annalise about getting married to Vash, which probably hadn’t raised her any in the young Austrian’s esteem.

                The general conversation was as dull and predictable as ever, though there was a brief discussion of classic literature, which excited Marianne greatly and in which she participated avidly. But it passed along with the dinner and the longer the wretched, platitudinous conversation went on, with it being so obvious that most of these people couldn’t stand each other and were only faking for the sake of appearances, the more Marianne felt like she really was going to start screaming if she had to stay in here one more minute. Arthur had joined them shortly after her exchange with Annalise and his scoffing at the “undignified” women’s rights movement in America was like fingernails on a chalkboard to Marianne.

                She hadn’t realized she’d gotten to her feet until she heard Annalise’s dry tone.

                “Going somewhere, Marianne?” Mme. Bonnefoy looked up.

                “Marianne, are you feeling alright?” she asked, giving Marianne a queer look. Marianne blinked rapidly.

                “I feel a bit warm, Maman. May I go outside for a moment or two and get a breath of fresh air?” She could hear titters around the table about her odd behavior, but Mme. Bonnefoy nodded slowly and Marianne took her leave.

                Outside, Marianne started running. She had no idea where she was going or what she was going to do when she got there, but she needed to be away from them, away from them all. She stumbled once or twice in her high heels, but she kept going until she’d reached the stern of the ship. She grasped the railing, feeling the frigid winds of the Northern sea whip at her face. Her heart hammered in her chest and her eyes scanned the black waters, no longer entranced by their beauty but seduced by their danger.

                There were so many thoughts crowding inside her head she wanted to cry for a lack of peace and quiet. Loudest of all were the voices of her mother and Arthur, telling her what she must do and why and chaining her up so that she might never fly free or God forbid, do what she wanted with her life. And she knew she was no different from thousands of other noble women who’d come before her, locked into place by social structure and forbidden movement by their families and husbands, but that did not take away the violent sting of injustice.

                Almost without her thinking about it, Marianne’s feet slipped out of her shoes and her stockinged toes raised up to stand on the lower rail.

                Marianne bet it was quiet beneath the waves. Silent, even. No sound around for miles and miles. She could be alone there, alone with her thoughts, away from all those hateful people trying to control her. Her breathing was coming faster than normal but she didn’t think long on it; her eyes were transfixed by the dark waves rolling beneath her, broken by the occasional flash of white from the water stirred up by the propellers.

                Yes…she was not going to let her mother and Arthur win. She would not let them force her to take a life she did not want. She stepped up one rung on the railing. Then another. Carefully, she lowered herself onto the other side and stood facing the water, her arms bent back to grasp the railing. Just one jump. Just one, and she could have this all over with. Let the waves close over her head and cocoon her in cold silence. Never have to do anything again that she didn’t want to.

                The wind rattled her jewelry and it jingled lightly as her hands shifted on the railing. But before Marianne could actually take the step to jump off the back of the ship, a voice broke her concentration.

                “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, miss.” Marianne’s fine brows furrowed and she looked over her shoulder to see a saucy-looking young man in suspenders and an unattractive green jacket watching her. His accent was too flat to be English; he must be American. He jerked his head towards the water, real concern flashing in his brilliant blue eyes. “That water’s artic; you’d freeze in less than a minute,” he postulated.

                “Get away from me,” Marianne said, her voice cracking slightly as he took a few steps closer. “Who are you? You aren’t even supposed to be up here; get out before I call the constables!” It was a fairly ridiculous threat for one in her position. The young man looked at her for a long moment and then a little smirk crossed his face. Marianne wanted to slap him.

                “You’re not going to jump,” he declared.

                “How do you know?” Marianne demanded heatedly. “Don’t presume to know me and what I will or will not do! Now go away; I’m very busy!”

                “If you were gonna jump you’d have done it already,” he said, reaching the railing and leaning his arms against it. “I’ve been watching you.” He looked up at her. “Whatever it is, miss…it’s not worth killing yourself for.”

                “That just shows how little you know about the world,” Marianne replied, feeling that if this stupid fellow kept talking, she’d lose her nerve entirely. The American sighed and shrugged his jacket off.

                “If you jump now, I’ve gotta jump too,” he said, looking a bit put out with her.

                “Excuse me?” Marianne said, her eyebrows arching.

                “I’m involved now,” he explained, running a hand through his straw blonde hair and removing the glasses resting on his nose to set them on top of his jacket. “If you jump, I jump.”

                “You’re crazy,” Marianne said blankly, staring at him.

                “With all due respect miss, I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship,” he pointed out.  There was a long pause between them. The American offered her his hand. “Come on now, let me help you back over,” he said.  Tentatively, Marianne released the rail with one hand and laid it in the stranger’s palm. He took her hand and she started to turn to climb back over the railing, but as she did, one foot slipped and she shrieked.

                The man’s other hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist so he had a hold on both.  With a great heave, he pulled her back up and her feet scrabbled at the railing as soon as she got close. When Marianne at last came over the top of the railing, they collapsed on the deck and the American pulled her to her feet.

                “What’s your name, miss?” he asked, sliding his glasses back on and picking his jacket up to drape over her shoulders. “Mine’s Alfred. Alfred F. Jones.”

                “Marianne,” she breathed, grasping the jacket. “Marianne Bonnefoy.” She swallowed and tried to calm herself. She offered Alfred her hand. “Thank you, Monsieur Jones,” she said. An amused look passed over Alfred’s face, but before he could say anything, a shout came from off to the side.

                “Marianne!” A man with the most incredibly large eyebrows Alfred had ever seen hustled over and grabbed Marianne’s shoulders. “What the devil are you doing? Do you know how long you’ve been gone?” He seemed to notice the jacket for the first time, then turned to see Alfred. He hooked an arm around Marianne’s waist and pulled her close to him. “And who are you?”

                “Alfred,” the perky boy said immediately. “Alfred F. Jones.” Marianne wondered if he always introduced himself with the F. Arthur pulled Alfred’s jacket off her and handed it off to one of the officers, wrapping his own around her shoulders. She could sense Arthur’s innate hostility rising though, so she hastily intervened for Alfred’s sake.

                “He saved me,” she blurted out. “I was leaning over the railing and I slipped. Alfred pulled me back over. He saved my life.” She glanced briefly over at him. Arthur looked between them.

“Is that so?” He then pulled several bills out of his pocket and offered them to Alfred. “Well thank you very much for rescuing my fiancée.” Alfred looked confused for a moment and Marianne’s brows furrowed as she looked at the paltry (comparative to Arthur’s vast wealth) sum of money.

“Indeed, thank you,” she said, pulling away from Arthur. “I had not been aware my life was worth so little!” She gave Arthur a pointed look and she could practically feel the waves of exasperation rolling off of him. Nevertheless, he put away the money and straightened his tuxedo coat.

“Perhaps then, the young gentleman would deign to join us for dinner tomorrow night?” he said, side-eying Marianne with a look that said ‘Is that enough for you?’

“Sure!” Alfred grinned and pulled at his suspenders. “That sounds swell!” Marianne just looked at him and barely refrained from shaking her head in dismay. The upper class was going to chew him up like a wad of gum.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Marianne almost argue; Angus tries to explain to Alfred why nobles can't date peasants.
> 
> Adele= Monaco

Once the business with Alfred had been cleared up and he had been booted on his way back to steerage, Arthur took Marianne back to her room and dressed in something warmer. As she was sitting in the main room of their suite, clad in her sleepwear and a robe, with a cup of tea clutched in her hands, thinking about what had happened earlier, Annalise Edelstein found it necessary to pay a visit.

                Arthur was going over some business papers at the desk, occasionally making small talk with Marianne, who seemed very distracted. He welcomed Annalise in.

                “Can you really not have a dinner without causing all sorts of drama?” Annalise asked almost before her bum had hit the seat she was taking. Marianne shrugged, unperturbed by her accusations.

                “What can I say? It is a talent of mine,” she said, sipping from her cup. “Tea?”

                “Nein, thank you,” Annalise replied, scrutinizing Marianne. “I heard some third class passenger waltzing around our deck caught you, is that so?”

                “Oh yes, he was a rogue of the most unsavory sorts,” Marianne embellished, leaning forward. “Must’ve been six foot two, with a scraggly beard and a wily gleam in his eye. Bet he hasn’t slept in a real bed his whole life. But sure enough, I started to take a tumble and he grabs ahold of me with big, calloused hands—” Apparently Marianne was getting too into this tale, because Annalise looked one part grossly intrigued and two parts horrified, right before Arthur intervened.

                “It was some boy,” he said, waving a flippant hand. “I would bet he wasn’t even as old as Marianne.” Annalise scowled at Marianne for having her on like that. Marianne heaved a sigh and slumped in her chair.

                “You’re no fun, Arthur,” she said.

                “I can live with that, by your standards,” Arthur replied, not looking up from his work.

                “Is there something you wanted, Annalise?” Marianne asked as politely as she could. Suddenly her jovial mood evanesced and she just felt exhausted. “Or did you merely come to exchange scathing repartee avec moi?”

                “You left your gloves at dinner. Your mother asked me to return them to you.” Annalise withdrew said gloves from the folds of her dress and offered them to Marianne, who leaned over to take them. An errand. Of course.

                “How heartbreaking. I thought you’d actually come here just to insult me and I thought I might be getting somewhere with you,” Marianne said regretfully, shaking her head.

                “You will not be getting anywhere with her,” Arthur said automatically, looking up. “Thank you, Miss Edelstein, for returning my forgetful fiancée’s gloves.” Marianne looked over her shoulder to frown at Arthur.

                “I don’t need you to thank Annalise for me; I’m quite capable of doing that on my own.”

                “Then do it.” Marianne’s gaze hardened; she was tempted to push this harder, but she didn’t want to fight with Arthur in front of Annalise. If she did, she could be assured the whole ship would be under the impression they were separating by the end of the evening. Annalise might not have been a notorious gossip, but she could make an exception for news concerning Marianne. So she turned back to the Austrian and gave her a little nod.

                “Merci, Annalise,” she said. Annalise gave her a curt nod and rose to her feet, departing without another word. Her departure left Marianne and Arthur to stew in silence, a clear flavor of hostility in the air between them. If you take a deep breath through your mouth, Reader, perhaps you can taste it. It is unspoken hostility, the kind which will cause trouble when it finally comes to a head. “That was really unnecessary,” Marianne said at last, taking another drink from her teacup.

                “What was unnecessary was whatever tale you were spinning to Annalise,” Arthur responded at once.

                “I was having a bit of fun; there was no harm in it,” Marianne said petulantly, a sulky expression on her face, since she didn’t quite dare challenge Arthur outright.

                “For one raised in the circle of the nobility, you have a shocking ineptitude with social graces,” Arthur told her. Marianne set her teacup down.

                “I think I’ll go to bed,” she said abruptly, rising to her feet. She could her a small sigh from Arthur and just imagined what he was thinking about her being overly sensitive or something of the like. She ignored it and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She looked around a moment or two and then collapsed face-first on her bed, suddenly weeping profusely. It was as if the stress from the events of the evening finally caught up with her and she realized she’d made an attempt to end her life tonight. She might have, if it hadn’t been for Alfred! And no one, not one person, suspected. They all believed fully in her fib; not one of them could see how miserable she was. She had a powerful aching in her chest for her friend Adele, who was back in France. She felt sure Adele would know that she had been lying and would try to help her.

                As she sobbed, she tried to keep the volume down, so as not to disturb Arthur, but after a few moments, she stopped bothering. She wanted to know if he’d come investigate if he heard her crying. She could hear him move about in the main room and then call out to her. Her heartbeat quickened.

                “Marianne! I’m leaving now; I will see you tomorrow.” And then, when she did not reply, the click of the door shutting. That was all.

                Suddenly too tired even to cry, Marianne curled up in a ball and laid there until she could summon the energy to crawl under the covers and go to sleep.

***

                Now if you’ll just step back, Reader, I’ll pop us back to the wrap-up of Marianne’s evening drama, because at the same time she’s sniping with Annalise and crying herself to sleep, Alfred is up to things too. Let’s go have a look-see.

                Alfred felt almost dizzy as he walked away, directed back to third class by some of the officers onboard who’d come to see if Marianne was indeed alright. So many unbelievable things! He’d only come up to the first class deck for a good look at the starry night sky. Space had always fascinated Alfred; if he’d been able to afford college, he would’ve studied astronomy. He knew all the constellations by heart.

                But he wasn’t looking at the stars now; he was hardly seeing where he was going at all. As his mother would’ve said, his head was in the clouds. Marianne. What a beautiful name. He was sure he’d never heard a better one. Marianne Bonnefoy. He kept repeating it over and over in his head, even whispering it to himself a couple times when no one was nearby (No, he can’t hear us, Reader. You can feel free to catch one of those _Marianne_ s floating around for a souvenir, if you like, though it might instill a sense of hopeless longing). Marianne…what an incredible woman.

                And yet, in so much trouble! He found himself ravenously curious about what had driven her to contemplate suicide and whether or not she would have actually jumped, had he not stepped in. He had claimed she wouldn’t jump, but he wasn’t really so sure.

                All the way back to his room, he felt like he was in a dream and kept seeing Marianne’s face in his mind, feeling her hands cling to him as he pulled her over the railing. He raised his jacket, slung over one arm, and sniffed it, hoping to catch traces of her perfume. No such luck; she hadn’t worn it long enough.

                When he reached the room, he swung the door open and collapsed on his lower bunk in a cushy pile of wistful sighs.

                “Feli,” he breathed, clutching the jacket in one hand. Feliciano peeked down at him from the top bunk on the other side of the miniscule room. “I met this girl…” Feliciano smiled brightly.

                “Is that where you’ve been! Tell me about her! Is she very pretty?” Feliciano was a total romantic; always on the lookout for lovely ladies for him or Alfred.

                “Beautiful,” Alfred declared, closing his eyes a moment to picture her face. “Most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” Feliciano laughed.

                “Sounds to me like Alfredo is in love,” he teased, setting aside the book he’d been reading. At that moment, their Scottish roommate pushed his way into the room, smelling of whiskey.  He flopped down on the bunk across from Alfred and pointed a finger at him.

                “Never play cards with an Englishman,” he warned. “They’ll cheat you every time.” Alfred just nodded.

                “What’s her name?” Feliciano piped up again from his bunk, moving to sit with his legs hanging over the edge.

                “Marianne,” Alfred told him.

                “Oh, is she French?” Feliciano queried.

                “You wouldn’t be talking about Marianne Bonnefoy, would you?” the Scotsman grunted, opening his eyes. His wife liked to keep abreast of the tabloids, so he had heard about the young heiress’ engagement to Arthur Kirkland, one of the more noble sons in all of Britain.

                “Yes!” Alfred said, nodding. “I met her on the decks tonight.” The Scot laughed.

                “You! Met Marianne Bonnefoy! What the devil were you doing up there?”

                “Watching the stars,” Alfred said sheepishly, coloring slightly. Then he sobered up. “She was going to jump, you know!”

                “Jump?” Feliciano echoed, his eyes widening. “Off the ship?”

                “Yeah! I came over to and asked what she was doing. She told me to piss off, really, but I told her I was involved, so if she jumped, I had to jump in after her,” Alfred explained.

                “Vee, that was good, Alfred!” Feliciano said enthusiastically, clapping his hands together.

                “I thought it was pretty good,” Alfred agreed with a grin.

                “You know you have no chance,” the Scotsman volunteered.

                “Huh?” Alfred looked over at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

                “She’s a noble,” the Scotsman explained. “You’re not.” Apparently Alfred still looked confused because he snorted and went on. “You wouldn’t understand, you’re American. But you’re in different classes; you might as well be different species.”

                “She seemed nice enough to me,” Alfred said, though mostly what Marianne had said to him was ‘go away’.

                “Nice, maybe,” said the Scotsman. “But interested in you? No. She can’t be; she’d destroy her family in scandal.” Alfred frowned and their bunk companion seemed to regret crushing the young man’s hopes.

                “Oi…maybe she’s different. Maybe it’s worth a shot,” he said, rolling onto his side. “I’m just telling you not to get your hopes up too much, lad. Not that that you shouldn’t try.” Alfred lightened up again.            

                “Yeah…I gotta see her again,” he said, looking up at the bottom of the top bunk, a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ll think of something…”


End file.
